Around us, Capone and Danyella laugh with Torch and Daisy, and Calypso rests her head on Farris’s shoulder while Annabelle sleeps against her chest. French steals whiskey from Derange’s flask, then finds a man-candy for her pleasure.
For one impossible breath, everything broken feels whole.
“You ever think about normal?” Carter asks, voice barely audible.
“Not lately.”
“This could be it,” he says, nodding at the laughter, the music, the makeshift family we built from fire. “If you wanted it.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Start with breathing. Work your way up.”
“I’m trying.”
“Yeah,” he says, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. “You’re doing fine.”
The song fades, but neither of us moves. Around us, the crowd thins, voices slipping into the dark. The ring lights dim. The engines die down. And still, we stand there, suspended in something that feels like mercy.
I tip my head back. “Come upstairs with me.” Carter nods with no hesitation, eyes dark with understanding.
My room smells like soap, leather, and the faint sweetnessof cherry whiskey sticky in the grain of the dresser. The window’s cracked to let the night breathe with us. Carter closes the door, and the sound feels like a secret locking itself in.
We don’t rush. We’ve both seen too many endings to waste beginnings. Carter reaches for me first, fingers tracing the hem of my shirt, pausing like he’s waiting for permission. I give it in the only way that counts, closing the distance.
The first kiss lands softly. The second one lands hungry. Carter cups my jaw, and I can taste the ache in him. The need. The fear of losing this too soon.
When his hands slide beneath my shirt, I shiver, my own fingers finding the back of his neck. His skin is warm, heartbeat steady under my palms.
We strip each other down between breaths, slow, reverent, like peeling away what’s left of the war. His scar catches the light, mine hides under ink and silence.
He presses his forehead to mine. “Sure about this?”
“Never been more.”
“Good,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked.
The rest happens in a blur of touch and sound, His hands on my hips, my nails at his shoulders, the heat between us building until it’s its own language. He moves inside me slow, deep, deliberate, like he’s memorizing every heartbeat. Every thrust pulls something loose. Grief, guilt, all the pieces we’ve carried since Alex’s death, since the first gunshot, since every time we almost didn’t come home.
When Carter whispers my name, it doesn’t sound likea warning or a plea. It sounds like a prayer that finally got an answer. I cling to him, body trembling, heart breaking in the best way.
Once we both catch our breath, we stay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling, breath syncing. His fingers draw lazy circles on my thigh. For once, silence doesn’t feel heavy. It feels earned.
“You realize this was reckless,” he says eventually, voice raw.
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t change it though.”
“Neither would I.” I smile, small and tired, tracing the scar under his collarbone. “You belong here, you know.”
He tilts his head. “With you?”
“With us,” I correct softly. “With the Harlots. With me.”
He chuckles, almost disbelieving. “That sounds like trouble.”
“Everything worth it is.”
